whoisjobe

Thursday, October 26, 2006

duct taped feathers.

Rain pours down from the heavens. A shadow glides across the surface of a red BMW. It's dark and the streets are empty. A young man sits hunched over in the car. Drool drips from his chin and onto a red track suit. The shadow circles two times to assess the situation and disappears.

A shockwave of bioelectric impulse kickstarts the young man's system. His eyes open to raindrops marching across the glass pane. Vision blurry and head pounding, he's still unsure of the where and why's to the here and nows. He looks left and sees an unlocked door. He pauses and looks right to see an empty seat. A glance down reveals the outfit from the previous evening's Halloween Festivities. A chill slides through cracked weather proofing.

From what the young man can gather through the haze of a foggy night's past, there was plenty of weed, flashing lights, discussions of grand delusions, single serving friendships, giggles, shots, and blank stares. In an attempt to swallow, he winces his eyes shut and draws his lips wide. It's an uncomfortable look, one of foolish youth regretting the perceived sweet embrace decadence and debauchery. To his friends and family, it's obvious that such a life is not for him. As much as he tries to will himself from the precious lullaby of clubland, his attempts are futile. There are friends here, and models, passion chasers, progressive movers and shakers always willing to get high with a little help from some friend. Even amongst the in crowd, he's always one to end up alone and regretting the things he'd said while under the devil's spell of disillusion.

"You know you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met," he whispered to his favorite waitress the night before. Sloppy drunk and slurring his words, it was no wonder she rolled her eyes. She saw not the passionate artist rather a bumbling buffoon. He was just another horny guy no matter how eloquently he tried to put it. One could only feel empathy for his plight. It wasn't as if he was an unattractive lewd and lascivious American dirtbag. Cordial, caring, genuine, anxious, perpetually inspired, and trustworthy not to mention loyal, courteous and kind, his mother would have otherwise been proud of her son. In moments brief yet powerful, he'd display signs of breaking through psychological bondage that convinced him of being a lesser mortal. Dreams of serene days of love in love with his very on Angel on God's green earth poured from his soul to blank anythings: notebooks, napkins, brochures, skin….everything became a canvas for lyrical expression of literal emotion.

Many viewed this as a gift but he forever saw his penchant for lyrical verbosity a curse. To him the power lay in images, both moving and still, celluloid and canvas; in either case acute in their impact, and embraced or denied by the masses in an instant. At night he'd pray to exchange lyricism and its arduous internal analysis for a full refund, a heavenly credit he'd charge against skills in the visual arts. "If only I could draw…see the angel hidden in the blank page like Michelangelo to a fresh block of granite," he'd scribble in many a 'successories' notebook. In his mind people hardly had the patience to follow his nonsensical streams of fluid consciousness past village after sacred village, through dense and dangerous jungle and ultimately to a shining sea of accomplishment.

"Jesus Christ it's freezing in here," he thinks aloud. He starts the car, cranks up the heat, and the radio kicks on. "Good morning, this is Marcie Metermaid for Metropolitan Public Radio on Monday November the 1st. Traffic is a mess out there today with delays up to 2 hours. Bring your inner peace with you this morning, the expressways are full of accidents."

As he surveys the damage, he notices a bag of records sitting ever so pleasantly on the back seat. Two hundred dollar headphones lay strewn out beside the bag. On the passengers seat lay his wallet open for all passers by to see. A cough stirs the silence of his motel on wheels. He glances at the clock and registers 7:30 AM. Through the foggy car windows he sees a parking meter which reads, 2 hour parking, 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM.

As much as he wants nothing more than to curl up in a fetal ball of absolute acquiescence, he knew he must make a move. The city's parking enforcement team would be out in full force to search for lawbreakers upon whom to bestow hundreds of dollars in fines for coming up fifty cents too short. "I can't believe this shit," he whispers as a tear streams down his face. The morning is gray and hazy yet his stupidity bright as a thousand suns. He's stupefied to think of falling asleep in an unlocked car drunk, high and drooling on his only supply. Anger and frustration rage inside his fragile mind, beggin to be released as a torrent of tears, but the antidepressants hold him back. Instead he slams his fist to the steering wheel in and act of defiance. No one else could be indicated in the case of last evening's decadence. His stomach begins to roll over itself in disgust as he remembered the closing moments of a night which could have been his last. In a drunken stupor he had left the club alone and wandered the Metropolis' streets back to his car. He had parked a few blocks away on a downtown sidestreet. Somehow he managed to find his car, step inside, fumble for the ignition, and make it as far as the second click of the engine. Fatigue commandeered his consciousness and lulled him into never never land.

By the grace of God not a single the homeless wayfarer tossed him from his seat and stole his car. His wallet and his person were still in good tact save the physical anguish of too much partying. Although he didn't believe in God, to him it was all talk of magic. "Just my dumb luck," he thought to himself barely able to crack a smile. He wrote the night off as a stupid lesson from which he'd learn next time.

On a park bench some fifty feet away, a man with missing teeth, one hand, and a menacing look upon his face sits under a poncho. He looks down at the morning's meal, a discarded half eaten burrito from the local bar goers 4AM food runs. His toes are open to the weather through a makeshift pair of sandals. A grocery cart is filled to the brim. Old newspapers, phone books, matches, a rusty razor, a weathered copy of a Gideon's bible and three picture frames make up its contents. A pigeon lands on the bench next to the old homeless man and coos. The man breaks off a piece of burrito and feeds it to the bird. He hears an engine start and looks up. He smiles, makes the sign of the cross, and places his palms in prayer as the young man perks up and drives away.

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